Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) (11 page)

The address I'd copied from Charlie's receipt was out Mission Street, almost to the Daly City line. It was a bland-looking neighborhood of small stucco homes. I didn't know if they were actually Wintringham row houses, but they fit the bill: eye-like windows and a gaping mouth of a garage beneath. Yes, I decided, if someone had strung chains across these garages, the houses would appear to be undergoing orthodontia.

A pickup truck sat in the driveway of the house I sought. The words "General Contractor" were visible on its door, but the name had been painted out and no new one took its place. I climbed the steps of the house and rang the bell.

A fat woman in stretch pants answered my second ring. She held a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, and ashes dribbled down the front of her overblouse as she said, "Yeah?"

"I'm looking for Bob Keefer. Is he home?"

"You and everybody else. He left around an hour ago. Try Ed's Place."

"Ed's?"

"Bar down on the corner. That's Bob's office." She laughed mirthlessly and stubbed out her cigarette in a planter on the railing.

I got out one of my cards, the kind that merely gave my name and not my profession. "If he comes back before I locate him, will you ask him to give me a call?"

The folds of her fleshy face pulled downward. "Bob in trouble?"

"Not that I know of."

"Is it about a job?"

"Possibly."

"Funny."

"How so?"

"I don't know what the guy who came by earlier wanted, but Bob had that look he gets—kind of foxy, you know—when he smells money. Sure would help. Maybe then he'd pay the back rent on his room and fix that heap so he could get it out of my driveway."

Obviously Prince Albert wasn't the only one with transportation problems. "The contracting business isn't so good?"

"Never is, this time of year. Too much rain, not enough inside work. Still, he should know better, should save up when he's raking in the dough. If he wasn't my own dead sister's boy… But that's another story." She glanced at my card again. "Yeah, I'll have him call you. Jobs are hard to come by."

I thanked her and headed for Ed's.

It was the standard neighborhood bar, with the standard booths and tables and paunchy man behind the bar. A couple of middle-aged women who reminded me of Bob Keefer's aunt sat near the rear. An old man nursed a tall drink and watched a game show on TV. I slipped onto a stool and ordered a beer.

The bartender set it in front of me and took my money, frankly sizing me up. This was the sort of establishment that would draw regulars from the immediate neighborhood and attract very few strangers.

"You know Bob Keefer?" I asked the bartender.

He shrugged.

"His aunt said I might find him here. It's about a job."

The man pursed his lips, then shrugged again. "He could use one. Carpentry business is lousy this time of year."

"Has he been in today?"

"Yeah, about an hour ago. With some guy. They talked, then left together. Don't tell me he's come up with two jobs in one day?"

"Could be."

"Well, if he has, you're out of luck. This guy looked like he could pay."

Did that mean I didn't? "In what way?"

"He looked rich. Denim suit, gold chains, you know the type. They drove off together in a sports car. Porsche, it was."

Larry French was still one step ahead of me, and not covering his tracks too well. I drained my beer and gave the bartender my card. "Would you ask him to call me anyway?"

"Sure. If he gets two jobs, he might pay his tab."

I went out onto the sidewalk and paused to button my coat. The rain had stopped, and there were faint blue patches overhead. So French and I had covered the same ground in an investigative conga line. What would he do next?

And, while I was on the subject, what
about
French? I hurried to my car and headed back to the Western Addition.

No one was at the front desk or in the parlor at Wintringham's. As I stood indecisively, I heard angry voices in the kitchen.

Arguments overheard on the sly can be very revealing. In my occupation, I had long ago conquered my scruples against eavesdropping, as I had many other principles. I didn't rationalize; it was merely one of the things I had to do.

Now I crept down the hall toward a door which, I knew from my house tour, would lead to the breakfast room adjoining the kitchen. I pressed my ear against the door. Paul Collins' voice came through loud and clear.

"… don't care if the project's in trouble! My inheritance was to be used for us, personally, not for business ventures!" His tone was high pitched.

"It's only a loan." Wintringham spoke soothingly. "If the project goes down the drain, so do we."

"I don't care! If you think I'm going to have my money used to benefit Larry French, you're mad!"

"It's not only for Larry's benefit, Paul. I know he's a sleazy character, but he's invested a lot in us. I can't kick him out to please you."

"Oh, that's right! You can't please me, but you want my money." There was the sound of a fist hitting wood. "You're not going to get it, David. The money is for us, not the business."

"Christ!" Wintringham's voice hardened. "Take a Valium before you fly off the handle, will you?"

"That's not funny, David. You know I'm nervous. First there's this killing. Now the business is about to fail." Collins began to whine. "You shouldn't make fun of me."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. But Paul, don't you see, we've got to pull out of this somehow."

"Not with my money."

Wintringham sighed. "Think about it."

"My mind's made up."

"Think anyway." Footsteps went toward the dining room.

I rushed back down the hall and stood by the desk, trying to look as if I'd just come in. A moment later, Wintringham came out of the parlor, his bony shoulders drooping dispiritedly. The project must be in a great deal more trouble than he'd led me to believe.

He started when he saw me. "Sharon." He shook his head as if to clear it.

"Do you have time for a couple of questions?"

"Sure."

"Larry French—how long has he been your partner?"

"Around a year."

"And how much would you say he knows about construction work?"

Wintringham smiled faintly. "Very little. His contribution consists of running around and bullying the workers so they quit."

I nodded. It was beginning to fit. "Another thing. Do you have any lamps similar to the Cheshire Cat's Eye around? I mean, kerosene lamps?"

"There's one in the second parlor." He frowned. "But why?"

"It's occurred to me that I don't really know what a kerosene lamp looks like or how it works. In case I run across the Cheshire Cat's Eye, I'd like to know."

"Sure." He led me to the middle room, indicating a lamp with an etched-glass shade on top of an upright piano.

I examined it. "How does the kerosene go in?"

"You pour it here." He indicated an aperture. "And then you light it like so."

I watched, then mimicked the procedure.

"Does this mean you're likely to come across the lamp?" Wintringham asked.

"You never know."

"But it's so distinctive you wouldn't need to know what a kerosene lamp looked like to recognize it."

"You're probably right. I'm curious, that's all." I didn't want to tell him about the three electrified replicas, not yet. "One more request. May I use your phone?"

"Be my guest." He led me back to the hall and pointed out the instrument before he went upstairs.

I waited until he'd disappeared around the landing before I dialed Ed's Place, the bar where Bob Keefer hung out. No, the barkeep told me, Bob hadn't come in. I called his aunt's house, but she said the same. Next I checked with my answering service. Johnny Hart had left a message. I dialed the number and got the restaurant owner.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Plenty. Raymond-the-Hit-Man's being held by the cops."

"What for?"

"Questioning on an assault. I got the word a couple of hours ago, so there's still time if you hurry."

"Time for what?"

Hart sighed. "Girl, you make some private eye. Now's your chance to go up against Nick Dettman. With Raymond on the loose, Dettman's dangerous, but alone he'll cave in like the chocolate-covered marshmallow he is."

I smiled at the metaphor. "What if he's not alone?"

"He's alone. I checked it out. He's at his office, and everybody else is gone for the day."

"Good work!"

"So get over there. But, girl, you be careful. Raymond's got a good lawyer; he's likely to be sprung any time now. And Dettman ain't exactly right in the head. You can't tell what he'll do. You take that gun, you hear?"

"I hear. And, Johnny—thanks."

"Don't mention it. I hate scum that push women around."

I hung up and paused, wondering why Hart was being so helpful. It could be a setup. Then I shrugged and headed for my car, patting the .38 in my bag.

This time I parked directly in front of Dettman's law office. Hefting my shoulder bag, where my gun rested within easy reach, I got out and approached the orange door.

Dettman sat slumped at his desk, thumbing through what looked like a government pamphlet. He closed it, tossed it aside, and picked up another. I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me.

Dettman looked up. He blinked and straightened in his chair.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dettman."

He wet his lips. "Where you get off coming here?"

"I wanted to ease your mind about my health. Since I haven't been around all day, you must have worried that Raymond overdid it. I know you'd never intentionally hurt anyone."

He swept the pamphlets aside. "Lady, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then I'll explain." I sat down on the corner of his desk and took out my gun.

Dettman stared at it, his mouth half opening.

"Don't panic," I said. "I would never intentionally hurt anyone either."

Blindly Dettman reached out and felt around on the desk.

I found the box of Fig Newtons and shoved it toward him. "Have a cookie, Mr. Dettman. It'll make you feel better."

He looked from the box to me, his full lips trembling. Johnny Hart had been right: Dettman was caving in like a chocolate-covered marshmallow in the heat of a campfire. I regarded him silently. His eyes flicked to the gun and back to my face.

"I am willing," I said, "to forgive and forget certain things. Raymond scared me, but he didn't really hurt me. So I have a deal for you."

At the word "deal," Dettman's eyes flashed with hopeful interest.

"I will forget about Raymond in exchange for information," I went on. "You will provide that information and, when Raymond is released by the police, you will tell him to leave me alone."

"What information?" Dettman's voice was hoarse.

"Let's start with the Cheshire Cat's Eye."

"The what?"

"Don't play dumb, Mr. Dettman."

"I'm not. What's this about a cat?"

"Not a cat, a lamp. A Tiffany lamp with a leaded-glass shade. Autumn leaves. A grinning mouth. One big yellow-green eye. Remember it?"

Comprehension and fear flooded his features. "That thing!"

"Yes. I presume Raymond delivered it to you?"

Dettman glanced at a large steel cabinet.

"Ah, you have it here."

He was silent.

"Go over there and get it." I motioned with my gun.

He sat still, his hand creeping toward the cookie box.

"Get it!"

Reluctantly, he went. The cardboard carton sat on the floor of the cabinet. Dettman placed it on the desk.

"Open it," I ordered.

With unsteady hands, he removed the lamp from its wrappings. I sucked in my breath. This was indeed the original. The autumnal colors glowed so richly that I didn't need the absence of a cord to tell the difference from Prince Albert's replicas.

"Quite a find, Mr. Dettman," I said. "Sit down and tell me why you went to such lengths to get it."

He eased his paunchy body into the chair. "No way, lady. I never heard of that thing until that slack-assed Raymond dragged it into my place last night. If that's what you're after, you go on and take it. It don't matter to me." In his agitation, his polished tones fell away and were replaced by the language of the ghetto.

"Oh, come on," I said, "don't give me that. Everybody I run into lately is after that lamp in one way or another. You're no exception."

He gestured helplessly. "I tell you, I don't want the damned thing. You take it."

"If that's true, then why did Raymond bring it to you?"

"You were ass up in the debris box after it. Raymond sees that, so he figures it's important, maybe it's got to do with Jake Kaufmann. So he figures I should have it."

"Why?"

"Why? That's the way Raymond operates. Ask him why."

"Okay," I said, taking another tack, "why did you send Raymond after me in the first place?"

Dettman groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"Why?"

"All right." He looked up, resigned. "I'll tell you the whole thing. But we got a deal, right? I tell you, you forget about Raymond?"

"Okay, a deal. Start at the beginning."

"The gun—you gonna put that down?"

"No, I'm not. The beginning, Mr. Dettman."

He sighed and leaned back, clasping his hands over his paunch. "Okay. It was Saturday. Saturday morning. I was here going over some papers. Larry French, Wintringham's partner, he came in."

"French? What did he want?"

"Their restoration project." Dettman smiled unpleasantly. "I could of told him. You don't move in on the people's territory, you don't expect to make over those buildings to force the black man out. But French, he's not so smart. Now their fancy restoration project's going down the tubes and French, he's scared this murder will put it under."

"So why did he discuss this with you, of all people? He's not stupid enough to think you'd help them."

"There's help and there's help." Dettman reached for a cookie and popped it into his mouth.

"Go on."

Around a mouthful of crumbs, he said, "French heard I knew someone who could fix things."

"Raymond."

"Right. He wanted me to get up something with Raymond for him."

"What?"

"He had in mind Raymond torching the restoration project."

I stared.

"They carry heavy fire insurance over there," Dettman added.

"Arson."

"Right."

"Good lord." French seemed more the villain of the piece every minute. If he collected on the fire insurance, he'd at least recoup his initial investment. But what of Wintringham? Was he in on the sabotage scheme? I thought of the argument I'd overheard between him and Collins, about Collins investing his inheritance in the business. No, I decided, French had acted on his own.

Dettman popped another cookie.

"So you contacted Raymond," I said.

"Yeah. He came over Saturday night, right after you left. He thought he could handle it."

"And, on top of that, you told him to handle me."

Dettman was silent,

"Let me ask you this: Did you send him after me on impulse, because you were angry when I left here that night?"

"Yeah." Dettman stared resolutely at the desk.

"Not very smart, for a man in your position. What happened next?"

"It was Sunday afternoon before I talked to French again. He hunted me up at my place."

"What did he want?"

"To call off the sabotage."

"Why?"

Dettman shrugged. "He said he'd found a better way to cut his losses."

A better way to cut his losses. That meant he'd either found a way to save the project or an alternate source of cash. Which?

"So you called Raymond off?"

"Not exactly. I left word in the usual places, but he didn't turn up until…"

"Until after he'd pushed me around."

Dettman stuffed another cookie into his mouth. "Right," he mumbled, spraying crumbs.

"Will Raymond follow your orders and forget about French's plan?"

Dettman looked surprised. "Sure. Why would he bother? Raymond works for money, not for kicks."

I didn't know whether I should be glad of that or not.

I stood up. "Put the lamp back in the carton, please."

He complied.

"Now carry it to the door."

He did, walking inches in front of the muzzle of my gun. I unlocked the car door. "Now set it down inside."

As he set it down, I stepped around him, pocketing the gun so no one on the street could see it. "Don't forget the second condition of our deal, Dettman. Tell Raymond to leave me alone."

The former city supervisor looked beaten and broken. "I said I would, didn't I? Just get yourself and that goddamn lamp out of my sight."

I was only too glad to do so.